Snowhook by Jo Storm

“More snow tonight,” she said. Her mouth was full, too. It was funny how talking with their mouths full wasn’t a big deal to them, no more than their tacit agreement to wait when one of them stopped and turned off the trail a little to pee. It made things very simple, and Hannah found that despite the cold and the nausea and the pangs of anxiety about her mom, she was relaxing into this routine and familiarity.

“After the snow, it’s going to get cold,” she continued.

“How cold?”

She dragged her spoon around the mostly empty pot, scraping up the last bits. She felt like she could eat for weeks, but there were only five packets of food left. She carefully licked the spoon clean.

“Cold,” she said.

“My sleeping bag is really warm. I’m not worried. It can get to minus thirty and I’ll be okay.”

“It’s not us I’m worried about.”

“The sled dogs will be fine,” said Peter. “That’s why dogs have fur. You worry too much.”

“Bogey and Sencha don’t live outside.”

Peter looked at the dogs, three snow-covered lumps near the sled. “Where’s the other one?”

“She’s in the tent. Exactly where she was last night.” He looked back at her, quick and angry. “Do you want her to freeze?” Hannah snapped.

“She’s a dog,” he insisted. “They stay warm.”

“She has to sleep inside or she’ll die, Peter.”

He grunted and went to check on their drying gloves. There was nothing she could do about his fear of dogs, but she had to make sure the dogs were properly taken care of without putting too much pressure on him.

Hannah scoured the spaghetti pot with snow and refilled their water bottles from the other. Then she dragged out the emergency kit. The contents had gotten jumbled up from being thrown off the sled, carried through the blaze trail, sat on, and rummaged through. If she’d had any strength at all, she would have gone through it to check that everything was intact, but the warmth of the fire and the spaghetti had turned her will to mush. She just wanted to sit in front of the fire and watch the light, so bright and compelling after two days of greyness and dark.

She located the sewing kit next to a small silver bundle tied with elastics. Emergency blankets. She mentally slapped herself on the forehead. She took out two of the four blankets, along with the sewing kit, and went back to the fire. “Look what I found!”

Peter was putting more wood across the centre of the fire, making the flames leap and sparks fly up to fight the thinning snow momentarily before winking out. He didn’t have his glasses on, and when he looked up, squinting to see her, she saw dark circles beneath his eyes. She handed him the sewing kit and one of the folded-up blankets. It was very small, as small as her cellphone, but once unfolded it was big enough to wrap right around a person, covering them from head to toe. The thin plastic layer didn’t look like much, but Hannah had used these before in ice fishing huts, and she knew that they worked almost as well as sitting near a fire because they were airtight and waterproof and reflected back almost all of your body heat, trapping it inside the blanket and keeping you warm.

“Nice!” said Peter. They unwrapped the blankets, tossing the wrappers into the fire.

Hannah watched as Peter awkwardly threaded a needle, his blunt fingers too cold to be dexterous. Then he took her ripped glove off its warming pedestal and began to sew neat stitches along the tear.

“You’re left-handed.”

“Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “Sucks.”

“I am, too,” she said. It was the first thing they had in common since both being afraid of Jeb. The leadership teacher at Hannah’s school, Mrs. Dowling, had said that the more people had in common with you, the easier it was to lead them. “It doesn’t suck. It means we’re smart.”

“Maybe. But it makes everything hard. Like this,” he said, holding up the glove.

“Why?”

“Because Jeb taught me how to sew, and she’s right-

handed.”

“Oh.”

Hannah watched the small needle dip into the thick fabric and out again. Their blankets caught all the heat from the fire, and the rock behind them reflected heat onto the backs of their heads. She took her toque off, running her fingers through her dirty hair. “My mom’s left-handed, too.”

“Yeah.” He said it like he didn’t care, but Hannah saw his brow furrow. “I mean, no one is in my family,” he continued, still sewing. “No … my uncle is. I don’t know, maybe my mom was, too. Probably.”

Peter’s mom was dead. Now it was Hannah’s turn to say “yeah” in an uncomfortable way. They didn’t have much in common, really.